Naming the Gestalt
NCC Medical Ward Like its previous incarnation, this medical ward was designed with the medic in mind, with all the modern advances to make the dirty work of repairs a world easier. It is well lit, the blue and violet metal of the walls and decor is a shade paler here, and the ubiquitous filigree is missing, all to assist in ease of cleaning. Still, the place veritably sparkles. In the furniture, there is a subtle motif of blades and sharp edges, as if to evoke the scalpel of a surgeon, although it is all quite safe. Around two dozen beds, more comfortable than their sharp looks would suggest, fill the medical ward, laid out in a tidy grid, and more can be flipped out of the walls should emergency demand it. A set of tracks on the ceiling mirror the grid of beds, allowing advanced scanning equipment and tolls to be swiveled around to the various beds. Computer terminals and cabinets are molded right into the walls at intervals, and while there are the normal medical security cameras, it appears as if someone has set some of the cameras specifically to watch the cabinets. Scrapper is currently sitting at one of the desks used for filing medical reports. He's tapping in commands into a datapad and reading his report out loud. "Lab turborat #3 is showing promise, having adapted reasonably well to the modifications. I worry about lab turborat #1, however, as her brain still needs a close examination by Hook. I'm confident she won't perish, though. Lab turborat #2 will be serving as the leader, due to her general bulkiness and immense size compared to the others." Early morning at this section of planet Earth, and the glare from the low angle of sunlight is none too kind to optics attempting to recover from self-medication. However, Fusillade finally came to terms with the reality of the situation, and so, it's with one elbow propped on the counter by the refueling station, she regards the medical grade energon with a bleary expression. "Slaggin' smug-aft, pretentious cuss," she grumbles to herself. Scrapper quickly alters, typing frantically, "Wait, scratch that. Lab turborat #1 will be serving as the /torso/, which of course does not in any way infer any form of leadership. It is commonly known and understood that any Combiner limb can serve as the Commander. Even a leg. Wait, scratch that. /Especially/ a leg. In this medical examiner's view-" tap tap tap tap, "-legs often perform better than their torso counterparts." Scrapper pauses and glances over at Fusillade, "Lab turborat #2 is feeding nicely. Her disposition is upbeat and cheerful." Nobody ever reads these reports anyway. Fusillade seems to level out as the spent, questionable substances are cycled through. Once the counter chimes off, she rises, and empties the last of the cube before stepping toward the yellow-green gash of color that is Scrapper. "So, what's the verdict?" She leans forward a bit to spy what he's typing. "And I think Jetfire knows. Made some comment after modifications without consent." Scrapper continues typing, "Lab turborat #2 is approaching this medical examiner." He pauses to wait for her question. "#2 is asking me what my verdict is. This medical examiner will be telling her that so far the progress is reassuring." Scrapper stops typing, "So far the progress is reassuring, Fusillade. Nobody has had any initial rejection to the mental merge, which is always the most unstable part. Of course we have no idea what kind of mentality a Gestalt might have. You five a very diverse bunch. What was it that tipped Jetfire off?" Scrapper would rather spring this on the Bots as a surprise. "REALLY, Scrapper. If you're going to identify us using THOSE names, you might as well put petrorabbit down for me since you like to remind me of my bomber mode's delicious, vaunted multi-ton mass." Fusillade's fingertalons click on the screen's edge. She draws air over her vents. "S'was at the Steel Balloon," she admits. "I had wanted to go there to blow off steam with the dance crowds. Last place I thought that wonder-nerd would be. I thought he was over-energized at first with the way his looking me over, but I think he was getting scans. Considering that he made the comment that he was disappointed at the lack of frame modifications, and that the residual energy couldn't possibly be good for me. I got ticked and left." "Oh that?" he asks about the names. "That's just... technical jargon. You don't need to worry about that." The Construticon considers what she says about Jetfire. "The modifications made to you so far to you shouldn't show up on a casual scan, but Jetfire's a wily one. Who knows what he might have discovered. Hmmm." Scrapper thinks it over, trying to figure out what Jetfire might have been able to reason out with what he could have gotten with a scan. "I don't think he'll be able to figure it out in time. Speaking of which, how about we take a few tests and see what additional modifications we can make?" Fusillade mmms. "I think I'm with you about him not figuring out it's a gestalt, per se. But he does know that there's some tinkering going on with me, at the least." She stands, and falls into step behind him. "I guess we're going to move on to working out the gestalt itself? How are we doing on supplies for that, anyway? Do I need to transform?" "Not just yet," Scrapper replies. "I need to work on your robot mode first." He begins assembling the tools he needs. Normally for basic repairs it's the delicate, small equipment, but for something like this heavy machinery is also required. "As for supplies, Bonecrusher and a couple other Decepticons made off with a good haul of energon on a recent raid. Somehow even managed to avoid destroying the 'truce'." Scrapper says that word as if he's still not really sure if the thing even exists. "This is going to be an expensive project, though." Hopefully with all the work the Constructicons are putting into this, they'll have a better relationship with -this- Gestalt team than with the bullying Stunticons, high and mighty Predacons, or the killy mckill kill Combaticons. "Oh hey, have you guys even thought up a name yet?" The armor shears and chainsaws get a look of tredidation from Fusillade as she recalls the first time she encountered those implements following her mouthing off to Scrapper and his kin. "Bonecrusher? Keeping a truce in place? That is pretty astounding. Expensive mm? Guess I will have to owe you one. And name?" She flicks optics once, settling down wherever Scrapper indicates, "No. I think we all got the smelt out of the repair bay the moment we could. I... really haven't spoken with any of the others afterward." Gee, THAT bodes well. Or perhaps the planes just wanted to go fly around and clear their heads. Scrapper shrugs, "Well the truce thing was more on account of Autobot stupidity than Bonecrusher's grace, per se..." when are Autobots going to learn that truces are for morons? Maybe never, Scrapper considers. "Well you're going to need a name. Both for the group and the combined form. Something like... I dunno, the Flyitrons... or... aeroplanicons." Scrapper evidentially wasn't the guy who thought up the Constructicons' name. Fusillade glances about. "Well, shouldn't everyone be involved? Hnn." Despite the objection, Fusillade puts on her thinking cap, and mulls over a few options. "Eyew, no, those suck! Hnn. Air... sky... Mach speed for all of us... Fliegercons! Nnn, no, mmm... Stratocons? Soarocons..." She mmmphs a bit. "Whoop Yer Aft Icons." Scrapper shrugs, "Those are ok, I guess..." none of them have the ring of Constructicons, which of course is the greatest combiner group name in the history of Transformerkind. "I'm taking you offline for some heavy duty refitting. I need to begin the installation of the connector ports. Estimated time... three astrohours." The astro makes success a sure thing. You say, "Yeah, well you come up with something better on short notice when you're going to have your chassis spread over half the med-" --End--